


chances are (your chances are awfully good)

by Spikedluv



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Community: trope_bingo, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:39:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spikedluv/pseuds/Spikedluv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on their op in Mexico City, Phil promised himself there’d be no more secrets.  When they finally make it back to New York City he makes good on that promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	chances are (your chances are awfully good)

**Author's Note:**

> Ep tag for 1.12 Seeds. Title comes from the song ‘Chances Are’ by Johnny Mathis. I’m also using this fic to fill the ‘presumed dead’ square on my trope_bingo card for round 3.
> 
> Written: January 31, 2014

The next time they parked the Bus in New York for a debrief to be followed by some much needed downtime, Phil went looking for Clint.

It was five weeks after his trip to Mexico City with Melinda, when he’d made the promise to himself that there would be no more secrets. He’d been chomping at the bit to see Clint again, but he didn’t want to give Fury or Hill, or anyone else who might try to stop him, any reason to think that he was up to something, and so he’d forced a patience he didn’t feel, waiting until Commander Hill herself requested their presence at SHIELD HQ in New York City to carry out his plan.

Phil had tried to sound less excited than he felt at the summons, but he was pretty sure that Melinda had noticed that something was going on. His, “We haven’t been back to New York in a while, I’ve missed it, and the team could use some time off,” appeared to satisfy her, but Phil knew better than to underestimate Melinda.

Phil spoke with each member of his team following the very thorough debrief related to the latest 084 they’d retrieved, and made sure they all had somewhere to go, something to do for the next five days. Then he got a cup of coffee and a piece of pie and sat in a corner of the cafeteria with his tablet, signing off on reports and approving (or denying) requests for additional supplies, new equipment and upgraded weapons until there was nothing left in his in-box.

It was late by the time Phil was done, and the cafeteria had emptied out. There were only two other occupied tables, one held a team fresh from medical, decompressing after a successful op, and the other an agent with black smudges under her eyes who was picking at a sandwich as she Skyped with her daughter.

Phil logged onto the shooting range roster. It would draw less attention than searching for Clint directly, and if anyone noticed and asked he could tell them that he wanted to reserve a slot for himself. Actually, he thought, that wouldn’t be a bad idea. He got very little time to practice since they spent so much time on the Bus.

Phil knew there was a chance that Clint wasn’t signed into the range, wasn’t in New York at all, but if he wasn’t out of town on an op, Clint would be at the range everyday to practice. Phil crossed his fingers as he scrolled through the schedule, because just happening to show up in Dubai or Islamabad, or wherever Clint might be, would be much more difficult to explain than wandering into the shooting range.

Phil allowed himself a sigh of relief when he came across Clint’s name on the roster. He wasn’t surprised that he’d chosen the 2am slot. Clint could work with the distraction of an audience, but he preferred the quiet, the solitude of the range during the early morning hours. Besides, Clint had never kept the same hours as most other agents, his internal clock always a little bit off from spending nearly as much time out of the country as in.

Phil checked the time – 10pm. He didn’t want to go to the room on base that he’d reserved for the night and risk falling asleep. Phil tucked his tablet under his arm and bussed his table, then headed to the nearest elevator.

No light shone under the closed door, which meant that the outer office was in darkness. Phil didn’t let that deter him. He pushed open the outer door and traversed the waiting area silently, but Nick didn’t appear fazed by his sudden appearance in the doorway to his office.

“Wondered when you’d show up,” Nick said, not pausing in signing his name to some form. Only when he’d finished the signature with a flourish did he look up. “Get all your paperwork done?”

Nick knew well Phil’s habit of making sure to clear off his desk, to clean out his in-box, before any major op or extended downtime.

“Over pie and coffee in the cafeteria,” Phil said. There were temporary offices he could use since he no longer had one on the base, but Phil had gotten used to the fact that he could be interrupted at any moment while doing his paperwork. Skye wasn’t as silent as Clint used to be, willing to sit on Phil’s couch and read or ‘rest his eyes’ while he waited for Phil to finish, nor as stealthy as she liked to believe.

Phil stepped into the office. He took in the large oak desk, the photos and commendations on the walls, the bookshelves, the hard chairs across the desk from Nick that didn’t encourage lingering, the plush sofa to one side that did.

Phil had been inside that office many times, knew it almost as well as he knew his own, and yet part of him couldn’t help but wonder just how much of his memory of the place was real? How much of his memories had been tampered with? How much of anything he thought he knew about himself was true?

“Are you headed out?” Nick asked.

Phil shook his head. “I took a room on base for the night. I didn’t want to have to worry about dust covers and fresh sheets this late.”

“You could’ve had someone take care of that for you,” Nick reminded him.

Phil shrugged. “I like to do it myself.”

“Control freak,” Nick muttered.

It wasn’t said meanly, was in fact a common tease between the two of them, and yet the words raised Phil’s hackles. “Takes one to know one,” he said, his tone a bit more harsh than he’d intended.

Nick sighed and dropped the pen he’d been using. “Are you here to yell at me?”

“Would it make any difference?” Phil said bitterly.

“No,” Nick said. “What’s done is done. But it might make you feel better to yell a little bit. Get if off your chest.”

“I don’t yell,” Phil said.

“Not normally, no,” Nick agreed. “You accomplish more with silence. Might do you some good this time, though.”

Phil shook his head. “Not my style.”

“Does that mean I should be on the lookout for you getting even?” Nick said, only half serious. Maybe 90%.

Instead of answering the question, Phil said, “You still have that bottle of whiskey in your desk?”

Nick gave Phil a long look before pulling open the bottom right hand drawer. He withdrew a bottle and two tumblers, and poured an inch of amber liquid into each. Phil waited until Nick set the bottle down and slid one of the tumblers cross the desk. He picked it up and took a sip, savoring the initial burn, the warmth that seeped into cold bones.

They moved to the couch and talked of things unrelated to Phil’s memories, or his recovery – ops SHIELD had been able to pull off in the last six months, how Phil’s new team was gelling. Phil noticed that Nick didn’t mention the Avengers, or Clint and Natasha, at all. He didn’t call Nick out on it, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that he was going to be in the same building with Clint in, Phil checked his watch, less than two hours. He yawned, as if noticing the time had suddenly made him realize how tired he was.

Nick raised his eyebrows. “Tired?”

“Sorry,” Phil said. “I haven’t been sleeping well. Nightmares.”

“I’m not going to apologize for the extraordinary measures we took to bring you back, or for trying to give you pleasant memories of your recovery,” Nick said.

“I’d be surprised if you did,” Phil said. He knew that Nick was unapologetic; he made his decisions, good or bad, and stood by them. Phil wasn’t going to apologize, either, for what he intended to do. It wouldn’t quite make them even, but it was a start.

“But I think I am going to turn in,” Phil went on. “Maybe we can get together while I’m in New York. Off-base,” he clarified at Nick’s look.

“Sure,” Nick said. “Dinner. Or maybe we could catch a show at that club you took me to one time.”

“Sounds good,” Phil said. He set his tumbler on the corner of the coffee table and rose. It would be washed and magically reappear in the drawer it had come from by one of SHIELD’s fairies, as Clint called them, because no one had ever seen them. “Good night.”

~*~*~*~

Phil lay his suit jacket across the end of the bed and unknotted his tie one-handed while he re-familiarized himself with the coffee machine SHIELD provided. He’d take a shower while the coffee was brewing, wanting to wash off the sensation of stale air and nervous sweat coating his skin. Once the coffee maker was set up, Phil started the shower so the water could warm, and then removed the rest of his clothes. He hesitated over whether to hang up the suit, but decided to drop it off at the cleaners with the others while he was home.

Phil tried to enjoy the shower – the water pressure was heavenly compared to that available on the Bus – but he couldn’t stop thinking about his purpose for remaining on base. Clint. Regretfully, Phil ended up hurrying through the shower. He toweled dry and wrapped the towel around his hips even though he was alone in his rooms. Phil poured himself a cup of coffee and took a sip before turning his thoughts to what he was going to wear for his first meeting with Clint in over six months.

Phil didn’t keep much in the way of casual clothes on the Bus, and he didn’t want to wear a suit for this, so his options when he’d packed had been limited. Phil laid out the faded jeans and deep plum sweater that reminded him of Clint. He rubbed his jaw as he took another sip of coffee and contemplated shaving. He didn’t want to appear as if he hadn’t put any effort into the meeting, but he also knew that Clint liked what he called Phil’s ‘softer’ look. Phil decided to leave it.

Phil got dressed, refilled his coffee cup, and sat down with one of his favorite Travis McGee novels. He could download a hundred books onto his tablet, but he preferred to hold the book in his hands, turn the pages with his own fingers, smell the ink. Even so, Phil found himself re-reading the same paragraph over and over again, unable to concentrate on the words.

Phil put the book down and checked the time. He still had over half an hour before Clint’s reservation at the range. Phil grimaced when he took a sip of the coffee gone cool and set it aside. He went over in his mind the things he wanted to say to Clint when he saw him – how he’d explain still being alive and why he hadn’t gotten in touch before now. It was very likely that Clint wouldn’t accept his apology, wouldn’t allow Phil time to explain, but he couldn’t think about that right now. He had to think positively.

Phil checked the time again. It frustrated him that he had no patience right now. When it came to ops he could sit for hours waiting for their target to appear, for intel to come through. He’d even sat beside Clint’s bedside in medical for hours waiting for him to wake. He was normally unflustered by time delays or bullet wounds, but the idea of seeing Clint again had Phil as nervous as a teenager on his first date.

Phil decided to wait no longer. If he walked slowly he could still time his arrival at the range after Clint. As it turned out, Phil was unable to slow his step, yet the sign beside the door was lit up to indicate that the range was in use. Phil considered stepping into the observation room just so he could watch Clint without the other man knowing he was there, but that would be selfish. Or maybe it was selfish of him to not want to wait any longer to see Clint.

Phil keyed in the code for the range and slipped inside when the door silently slid open. The range was empty except for Clint in the far lane which was reserved for archery, the room silent except for the whoosh of the arrow being released and the thud as it hit its mark. Clint didn’t stop shooting until he’d emptied the quiver on his back. Clint dropped the bow to his side as he studied the 3D target, the arrows sticking out of it making it look like a deformed porcupine, before turning to look at Phil. He shouldn’t have been surprised that Clint had known he was there.

“Coulson,” Clint said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Barton,” Phil said, following Clint’s lead. They were, after all, still on base even though it was two o’clock in the morning. “I wanted to see you, talk to you.”

“About what?” Clint said.

It hit Phil then, though he should’ve noticed right away, that Clint was surprised to see him, but Clint wasn’t surprised that he was alive. “You knew,” Phil said, and everything inside his head went a little bit lopsided.

“That you were alive?” Clint said. “Yes.”

“How?” Phil said, then answered his own question. “Stark. Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked when Clint didn’t bother replying.

Clint’s lips curled into not-exactly a smile. “I figured you had your reasons.”

“What reason could I possibly have for . . . ?” Phil began, then stopped when he realized what he was saying. How could he yell at Clint for thinking Phil must’ve had a good reason for not telling him that he was alive when Phil had thought the very same thing?

When Phil was done silently berating himself, Clint had turned to place his bow back in its case. Phil took a moment to study Clint while he had his back to him. He looked good. Tired, maybe, shoulders slumped a little more than normal, perhaps, but still good.

“I can’t believe you were able to keep Stark from contacting me,” Phil said. He couldn’t believe that Clint hadn’t tried to contact him. The Clint Phil knew would have moved heaven and earth if he thought that Phil was being kept from him. “Does Natasha know?”

“We all know,” Clint said. “If you think Stark was able to keep his mouth shut about his discovery, you don’t remember him very well.”

That comment thrown out so lightly hit home, but Phil kept his face blank.

“Nat and I explained to them that you must have had a good reason for not contacting us. Stark argued, of course, but he was eventually convinced to leave it alone,” Clint said.

Phil figured there had to be a story behind that, but he didn’t know if he should ask. Instead he asked, “What reason did you think I had for not letting you, of all people, know I was still alive?”

Clint shrugged. “It was possible that Fury kept your being alive a secret because you were being sent on an undercover op.”

“You really believed that?”

“No,” Clint said. “But it didn’t matter if I believed it, so long as I could make Stark believe it.”

“That must’ve been difficult after Union Station,” Phil said. “I imagine seeing my face plastered all over Youtube didn’t support the theory that I was on an undercover op.” And still Clint had stayed away.

“It was also possible that you were protecting me,” Clint said. “From the WSC. Fury told me that they were looking for a scapegoat.”

Phil wished his reasons had been so noble. “That was enough to keep Stark silent?”

“If you don’t count his hacking into SHIELD and reading every field report you filed, then yes,” Clint said as he moved down the lane to retrieve his arrows.

Phil watched Clint’s graceful movements as he pulled the arrows from the target. He knew he should say something, but he didn’t know what. He’d come prepared to convince Clint that it was really him, but they’d skipped that entirely and gone straight to the reasons why Phil had let Clint continue to believe the lie. It had thrown Phil off his game as much as Clint believing he had the answers and seemingly being unaffected by Phil’s presence.

Phil had expected some yelling, maybe a thrown punch, which he would’ve taken because he deserved it, but this reunion had none of that. There wasn’t even any ‘I’m glad you’re alive, but I think you’re an ass.’ Sure, the shock value would have been lessened by Clint already knowing, but it was almost as if they were strangers.

Clint wasn’t one to hide his emotions – if he was upset with you, you were made fully aware of it. This Clint wasn’t happy to see Phil, he wasn’t angry at being lied to . . . It was almost as if he was resigned, but to what?

“Why did you think I didn’t tell you I was alive?” Phil asked.

The hesitation as Clint replaced the arrows in the quiver was slight, but it was enough.

“What do you mean?” Clint said, but Phil didn’t buy it.

“You told me what you told Stark to keep him from coming after me, but I want to know what you believed.”

“Does it matter?”

“I think it matters very much,” Phil said.

Clint finished with the arrows, placed the quiver in the case with the bow, then snapped the case shut. Phil waited, anticipation thrumming through his veins because this, he thought, this was it. This was where he found out what Clint really thought, and whether he could ever forgive him.

Clint turned around and leaned back against the counter in a faked show of ease. His arms hung loosely at his sides, but his hands were clenched into fists.

“I thought you blamed me.” Clint’s gaze dropped to Phil’s chest before rising again to meet his eyes. “For everything that happened.”

“I . . . What?” Phil said.

Clint shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “You wouldn’t be the only one. Hell, from what Fury told me, the WSC wanted me badly. Besides, no one blamed me more than I blamed myself.”

“What?” Phil said again.

His mind felt like it was on a hamster wheel, running and running, but never getting anywhere. He heard the words Clint spoke, but he couldn’t make sense of them.

“It’s alright,” Clint said. “I understand.”

“No! What . . . ? Clint, it’s not alright. I don’t . . . I never . . . How could you . . . ?” Phil broke off because the answer to that was obvious. “If I’d realized you thought that . . . I don’t blame you, Clint. I never did.”

“Sure,” Clint said. “Listen, Coulson . . . Phil, I appreciate you stopping by to tell me, but if that’s all, I think I’m gonna call it a night.”

Clint had already hefted his bow case and taken two steps past Phil before he could react.

“No,” Phil said, “that’s not all. I didn’t come here to tell you that because I didn’t know you thought that. I came because I love you, because I miss you, because I’m tired of secrets, especially when they keep me away from you.”

Clint had stopped walking, but he hadn’t turned all the way around. “If you didn’t blame me for what happened to you, then why?” he asked over his shoulder.

Phil opened his mouth to answer, but found he didn’t have a reason. Not a good one, anyway. ‘I was following orders’ seemed like such a weak excuse for what he’d put Clint through, even before he’d known that Clint had blamed himself.

“Fury said ‘jump’ and you said ‘how high’?” Clint guessed. He gave Phil a sad smile. “I think I liked it better when I thought you blamed me. That I could at least understand.”

Clint walked out of the range, and Phil didn’t try to stop him.

~*~*~*~

Phil’s room wasn’t empty when he returned; Nick sat in the chair frowning down at the paperback he held in his hands. The frown smoothed out when Phil entered. Nick set the book aside.

“I don’t know how you can read that,” Nick said, renewing an old argument. Without waiting for Phil to answer, he went on. “How did your tete-a-tete with Barton go?”

Phil didn’t even bother asking how Nick had known. “Not well,” he sighed. Phil dropped down on his bed and slumped forward, elbows on his knees, head bent.

“That’s to be expected,” Nick said. “I’m sure seeing you was quite a shock. He’ll come around.”

Phil huffed a humorless laugh. “Yeah, no. Did you know that Clint already knew I was alive?”

“There’s absolutely no way he knew,” Nick said. “That information was need-to-know and encrypted to hell and back.”

Phil raised his head and just looked at Nick.

“God damned Stark!” Nick exploded.

“Yeah,” Phil said. He couldn’t really fault Stark for telling Clint, especially if he’d thought he was doing Clint a favor, but he sure had made a mess – a bigger mess – of things.

“Why the hell didn’t they say anything?” Nick said.

“Because of Clint,” Phil said. “He told them that I wouldn’t lie to them about this without a good reason, and then he gave them some examples, none of them the truth, because what he really thought was that I blamed him.” Phil brought his hand to his chest. “For getting stabbed.”

“Son of a fucking alien trickster god bitch,” Nick swore. “I don’t care what they’re doing to him in Asgard, Loki got off too easy.”

“Agreed,” Phil said. Not for himself, but because of what he’d done to Clint.

“Well,” Nick said. “That does explain some things. I talked to Clint a couple times about that, mostly when the WSC started making noise. I told him that no one blamed him. He just said, ‘sure’.”

Phil groaned silently, remembering that Clint had said the same thing to him.

“Well,” Nick said. “We can’t do anything more about this tonight. I’m headed home. You gonna be able to get some sleep?”

“Probably not,” Phil admitted. “I think I’m gonna head to my apartment.” If he couldn’t sleep, that time would be better spent putting clean sheets on the bed and sorting his laundry rather than staring at the walls.

By 7am, Phil had made the bed with fresh sheets, done three loads of laundry, had a bag of dry cleaning by the door waiting to be dropped off, had drank an entire pot of coffee, and taken another shower. He might have been a little bit wired from too much caffeine and too little sleep.

Phil finished knotting his tie and studied his reflection in the mirror as he smoothed his hand down his front. He slipped the jacket off the hanger and put it on. He buttoned the jacket and snapped the shirt cuffs. Once fully armored, Phil felt ready to go out and face whatever the day might throw at him.

Phil dropped off his dry cleaning, which they promised to have ready before he left town again – the benefit of a local establishment and a proprietor who knew that he traveled a lot ‘on business.’ On his way to Stark Tower, Phil stopped by his favorite coffee house for two coffees and a sampling of that morning’s pastry selection.

At the Tower, Phil bypassed the main floor reception desk and went directly to the elevators. No one looked twice at the man carrying coffee and pastries who looked like he knew where he was going. Until he pressed the button for the floor where Pepper’s office was located.

“Agent Coulson,” JARVIS said. “Welcome to Stark Tower. I see that rumors of your death were greatly exaggerated.”

“I know you already knew I was alive, JARVIS,” Phil said. “Stark hacked into confidential SHIELD records, and I’m sure you had a little something to do with that.”

“A little?” JARVIS said. “Frankly, Mr. Stark would be lost without me.”

“On that we can both agree,” Phil said.

“Who are you here to see today?” JARVIS asked. “Since you didn’t check in at the reception desk.”

“Miss Potts,” Phil said.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“You know I don’t,” Phil said. “But I was hoping she could spare me a few minutes.”

“I’ll asked,” JARVIS said. After a moment of silence, JARVIS said, “Miss Potts would be happy to see you.”

“Thank you, JARVIS.”

“You’re welcome, Agent Coulson. And welcome back.”

“Thank you,” Phil said. He refused to get choked up because an AI was happy to see him.

Pepper smiled at him when Phil was let into her office. She was sitting on the sofa, her legs tucked under her, an open folder in her hand, a pile of them on the cushion at her knees.

“Phil,” Pepper said as she set the folder aside and rose. She walked across the room on stocking feet and took the hand Phil freed up by tucking the fold of the bakery bag under the fingers holding the cardboard cup carrier.

Pepper studied Phil with eyes that missed nothing. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

“Thank you,” Phil said. “It’s good to see you again, too.”

“Is this for me?” Pepper asked, leaning towards the coffee cups.

“A bribe in case you didn’t want to see me,” Phil said.

“Don’t be silly,” Pepper said. “Come on in and have a seat.”

Phil followed Pepper back over to the sofa. She moved the pile of folders over to the low table in front of the sofa and then retook her seat. She leaned forward and patted the cushion in front of her. Phil sat and transferred his burden to the table. He handed one of the coffee cups to Pepper before she fell off the couch, the coffee apparently drawing her like a magnet. 

Phil hid his smile behind his own cup when Pepper closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, savoring the aroma before taking a sip. He sipped his own coffee and hoped the expression on his face didn’t mirror Pepper’s expression of bliss.

Phil had always brought coffee from his favorite shop when he dropped in on Pepper to ease the way. Pepper had agreed that it was the best coffee she’d ever tasted (which was something, given Tony Stark’s resources), but Phil had refused to tell her where it came from, teasing that it was the only reason she let him visit and swearing that he’d take the secret of the shop’s location to his grave.

“Yeah, that joke’s probably not funny anymore,” Phil said.

“I hate to break it to you, Phil, but it was never all that funny,” Pepper said, catching on immediately to where Phil’s mind had gone. “Coffee’s still good, though.”

“It is,” Phil said. He opened the bag and tipped it towards Pepper. She bent her head and peered inside, then took out the napkins that had been placed on top and chose the raspberry turnover. Phil took the cranberry orange muffin and set the bag onto the table.

They took their first few bites in silence, and then Pepper gave Phil an assessing look. “Not that I don’t appreciate the coffee, or that I’m not happy to see you, but what’s the occasion? I mean, you’ve been . . .”

“Lying to everyone for months?” Phil finished.

Pepper shrugged delicately. “I’m sure you had your reasons.”

Phil snorted indelicately, and Pepper looked momentarily surprised. “In hindsight,” he said, “would any reason be good enough for allowing your friends, your . . . boyfriend,” Phil settled on (they’d never labeled themselves), “to believe that you were dead?”

“Maybe,” Pepper said gently, doing a good job of being supportive despite the circumstances. “What happened?”

“I went to see Clint,” Phil said.

“Clint,” Pepper repeated. “Clint Barton.”

“Yes.”

“I’m guessing it didn’t go well,” Pepper said.

“No.”

“Did he tell you that we, uh . . .”

“Already knew I was alive? Yes.”

“Clint was the one to argue that we shouldn’t contact you,” Pepper said. “He insisted that you had to have a good reason for not letting us know.”

“Yes, well, Clint thought . . . Clint thought wrong,” Phil said. “He thought I didn’t want him to know I was alive because I blamed him for . . .“ Phil absently touched his chest.

“Why would he think that?” Pepper said, aghast.

“Because he blamed himself,” Phil said.

“But . . .”

“Clint is . . . complex,” Phil said. “And things were further complicated by the fact that Clint is . . . Clint was the boyfriend.”

Phil watched Pepper’s face closely to see her reaction, but she just looked confused. “But, the cellist?”

“There was no cellist,” Phil said. “There was only ever Clint.”

“And he thinks he got you killed. And because of that you never wanted to see him again,” Pepper said.

“Pretty much,” Phil said.

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m gonna need another pastry for this.”

Phil handed Pepper the bag.

~*~*~*~

Phil had been home for a couple hours when there was a knock at the door. He’d spent an hour with Pepper – he hadn’t received any revelations, but being able to talk to someone and get everything off his chest was cathartic – and then stopped to do some grocery shopping on the way home. Goldilocks would’ve taken one look at Phil’s cupboards and moved on.

Phil set down the knife he’d been using to slice vegetables for a chef salad and wiped his hands on the dish towel. He wasn’t sure who he’d find on the other side of the door, his mind supplying anyone from Nick to Skye, so he peered through the peephole before throwing the door open.

“Clint,” Phil said, surprised and relieved and so many other emotions that were colliding inside him and setting off butterflies in his stomach.

“Can I come in?” Clint said.

“Oh, yes, of course,” Phil said, stepping back and allowing Clint to enter.

Phil closed the door and turned towards Clint. He barely had time to register Clint’s fist flying towards his face before it impacted with his jaw. Phil staggered, more from surprise than the pain that blossomed in his face.

“Ow,” Phil said to Clint’s back as he walked away. He worked his jaw to make sure it wasn’t broken. Clint had pulled his punch or else Phil would’ve been knocked to the ground, but the blow still hurt.

Clint returned with a wet cloth that he handed to Phil. Phil stared at it, unsure what he was supposed to do with it. Clint took Phil’s hand and raised it to his face until the cloth was pressed to his jaw. The coolness of the cloth felt good against skin that would soon be showing a bruise.

“You didn’t have ice,” Clint said. “Not even a bag of peas.”

“I know,” Phil said. “Thanks.”

Clint raised his eyebrows.

“Not for hitting me,” Phil clarified. “Not that I didn’t deserve it.”

Clint didn’t argue. Not that Phil had expected him to.

“Would you like to sit down?” Phil offered, since Clint didn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave.

Clint glanced towards the living area. He walked over, but didn’t take a seat. Phil followed him and stood for a moment, but felt foolish just standing there, so he sat on the couch and waited to see what Clint would do. Clint wandered the living area, looking at the photos hanging on the wall, the books stacked on the shelf, all things that he’d seen a hundred times before.

“They changed the lock,” Clint said. “After you . . . There were things I wanted to take.”

“I didn’t realize,” Phil said. He lowered his hand and stared at the cloth. “I’m sorry.”

Clint shrugged as if it was no big deal, but Phil knew differently. Clint wouldn’t have mentioned it if it hadn’t eaten at him.

“I figured it was karma,” Clint said with a grimace masquerading as a smile.

“Don’t,” Phil said. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You are not to blame, and if I’d realized . . .”

“You’d what?” Clint said. “You’d have come rushing back instead of letting me believe you were dead?”

“I . . . maybe.”

Clint snorted. He paced some more in silence, then said, “Why’d you do it? Just . . . just give me one good reason.”

“I have reasons,” Phil said. “I have a list of them. And at the time I thought they were good, but I’m not so sure anymore.”

“Try me,” Clint said, and Phil could hear the plea in his voice that said ‘make me understand.’

“It doesn’t matter,” Phil said, “because I was wrong. There is no reason good enough for what I put you through. I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

“Why did you come to me now?” Clint said. “I mean, what changed?”

“I did,” Phil said. “There have been too many secrets. Too many lies. And too many nights I went to bed missing you.”

“I don’t know what to think about all this,” Clint said.

“I understand.”

“I thought you hated me.”

“Clint, I could never hate you,” Phil said.

“Part of me wishes . . .”

“Wishes what?” Phil asked when Clint didn’t continue.

“That you’d never come back,” Clint said. “That you’d never told me all this.”

Phil felt as if he’d just had his heart carved out of his chest, but he didn’t let it show on his face. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Clint said, a hint of anger in his tone.

No, not at all. “Yes, I think I do.”

“What . . . What did you expect was going to happen? With us?” Clint asked. “When you . . . came back.”

Phil hadn’t had any expectations. At least, that’s what he’d told himself. But he wasn’t so certain now, given how unprepared he was to answer the tough questions, if he hadn’t somehow imagined a movie-like reunion where the whys and the hows were set aside in the sheer joy of being reunited. It was especially ridiculous given that he and Clint had never had a romance movie type of relationship, with flowers and candy and kissing in the rain.

Unless you counted that one time Clint had been bleeding out on a rooftop in Prague, his blood turning the streams of water flowing around them red while Phil pressed his jacket against the wound and threatened to shoot Clint himself if he died, but Phil didn’t think you could.

“You had reasons,” Clint said when Phil didn’t answer right away, “but not good ones, and you expected us to, what? Take up where we’d left off before you lied to me for months about something so basic to our relationship as you _being alive_?”

“When you put it like that,” Phil said.

Clint stopped pacing and stared at Phil. “Are you kidding me right now?” he said. His hair stuck up from where he’d roughly pushed his fingers through it.

“In hindsight,” Phil said, “winging it was probably a bad idea.”

“Flying by the seat of your pants usually works for you,” Clint pointed out.

“This is too important,” Phil said.

“For being so important, you didn’t put much thought into it,” Clint observed.

“Thinking about it too much only highlighted what a monumentally bad idea it was to start with, and then I couldn’t imagine a world where you’d be okay with any of it. And I really needed you to be okay with it.”

“What about what I need?” Clint said.

“What do you need?” Phil asked.

“Other than a time machine to go back and make sure none of this ever happened? I don’t know,” Clint said, and he sounded more defeated than Phil had ever heard him.

“I’ve been compromised,” Phil blurted out. He’d never intended to tell Clint that, at least, not now. He didn’t want Clint to think he was in any way comparing what happened to him with what had happened to Clint. But Clint needed something from him, and maybe sharing what had happened to him would be a start.

“By me?” Clint asked.

Phil actually smiled at that. “I was compromised by you a long time ago. But no, I meant . . . after I died.”

“You didn’t die,” Clint said, gesturing towards Phil with his hand as if to say, ‘you’re right here.’

“I did,” Phil said gently. “Apparently I was dead for several days. I don’t know how long exactly. I don’t even know how they brought me back. When I started to get suspicious that things weren’t as they seemed, I tried to access my medical file, but I didn’t have clearance.”

“Why not?” Clint said.

“That’s what I wondered,” Phil said. “I finally remembered something.” He’d tell Clint _how_ he remembered later. “I was on the operating table, and there was a machine. An alien looking machine with . . . probes, and it was messing with my brain. When I confronted him, Dr. Streiten said they’d needed to give me ‘the will to live.’

“It was horrific,” Phil went on. “I . . . I begged them to let me die.”

“Jesus, Phil.” Clint dropped down onto the couch beside Phil and took his hand, clung to it.

“No, let me . . .” Phil squeezed Clint’s hand. “Let me finish.” He took a breath before continuing. He hadn’t realized this would be so difficult.

“They covered up my memory of the . . . procedure with a ‘more pleasant memory’ of a recovery in Tahiti.”

“Tahiti?” Clint said.

“It’s a magical place,” Phil said, with an hysterical laugh.

“Phil,” Clint said helplessly.

“I wasn’t going to tell you this,” Phil admitted. “Not yet. I didn’t want you to think you couldn’t be mad at me for making a stupid decision just because . . .” He let his hand flop and realized he still held the cloth Clint had gotten him.

“And I know that what happened to me was nothing like what Loki did to you. I don’t want you to think that I . . .”

“Phil, stop. It’s not a contest.”

“That’s what I’m trying to say,” Phil said. “I don’t want to invalidate your experience, or your feelings, by . . .”

“Have you been seeing a shrink?” Clint said.

“No,” Phil said. “A shrink might’ve told me that winging it would be a bad idea.”

Clint’s lips twitched.

“I found these videos on Youtube.”

“Therapy via the internet? That sounds dangerous.”

“Yeah, well, desperate times,” Phil said. He looked at Clint’s face, the almost smile on his lips, part humor and part exasperation, and felt his heart swell.

“I know you’re mad at me, and you have every right to be,” Phil rushed to assure Clint.

“I appreciate that,” Clint said gravely.

Phil sighed and shook his head. “I know I sound ridiculous. I just wanted you to know that I . . .” He squeezed Clint’s hand. “I’m really happy to see you.” And happier still that this Clint was more animated than the one he’d seen at the range earlier that morning. It seemed so long ago that Phil couldn’t believe it was the same day.

“I’m happy to see you, too,” Clint said. “I mean, I knew you were alive, but . . .”

“Seeing is believing?” Phil said.

“Something like that.”

“Same here.” Off Clint’s questioning look, Phil said, “Nick told me that you’d somehow broken free of Loki’s hold . . .”

“Nat kicked me in the head when Loki’s grip was tenuous. When you shot him, near as we can tell. Which we will be speaking about at a later date. At length.”

“. . . and that you were alright,” Phil finished dryly. “But it’s good to be able to see that for myself finally.”

“You could’ve at any time,” Clint said.

“I know that,” Phil said. The fact that he’d let so much time go by before contacting Clint would forever haunt him.

“I’m going to need time to think,” Clint said regretfully. “Work things out in my head.”

“Of course,” Phil said with a little too much exuberance to cover the disappointment he felt. “Take all the time you need. Within reason,” he added.

The corner of Clint’s lips twitched and he arched an eyebrow.

“No, no, all the time you need,” Phil said.

“You really had no expectations?” Clint said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Phil said. “I was filled with expectations. There might’ve even been a brief moment of madness where I imagined us running towards each other across a field of wild flowers, the wind blowing our hair back. But neither of us really have the hair for it,” he said. “Or the bosom.”

Clint ducked his head to hide a smile. “I don’t know why people think you don’t have a sense of humor.”

“You’re one of the few people who get my jokes,” Phil lamented.

“I should be going,” Clint said suddenly.

“Oh. Yes. Of course,” Phil said. He wasn’t ready for Clint to leave, but he couldn’t make him stay.

Phil stood and Clint stood with him.

“Thank you for coming,” Phil said.

Clint nodded. Only when Clint let go of Phil’s hand did they both realize he still held it. He raised his hand to Phil’s jaw, gently touched the tips of his fingers to it.

“Sorry. For . . .”

“Oh,” Phil said. “That’s alright.”

Clint dropped his hand. “So. I’ll call you?”

“Yes. Please,” Phil said. “Here, let me give you my new number.”

Phil found the pad of paper and pen near the land line, which had been disconnected after Phil died, and never turned back on. He mainly used the pad to write his grocery lists on, which meant it didn’t get much use. He wrote his cell number down and tore off the top sheet, held it out to Clint.

Clint took the paper, glanced at it, and then folded it in half and slipped it into the front pocked of his jeans.

“So,” Phil said at the same time Clint said, “Alright.”

They grinned at each other until they felt foolish standing there with grins on their faces.

“You can call anytime,” Phil said. “Day or night. I mean, it doesn’t matter what time it is, I’ll always want to hear from you. Jesus,” he sighed. “Could I make myself sound any more pathetic and needy?”

“I’m sure you could,” Clint said, “if you give it the old Phil Coulson effort.”

“Funny,” Phil said.

They smiled at each other until Clint cleared his throat. “Well, goodbye, then.”

“Goodbye,” Phil said.

Clint opened the door, which was good because Phil didn’t think he could do it.

“I’ll call you,” Clint said.

“Drive carefully,” Phil said.

When Clint was gone, Phil closed the door and banged his head against it. “Drive carefully. The man jumps off buildings.”

Phil went into the kitchen and tossed the cloth into the sink. Only when he saw the fixings on the counter did he remember the salad he’d been in the middle of preparing when Clint arrived. He wasn’t that hungry now so he put everything back into the refrigerator. He was wiping down the counter and considering the therapeutic value of a glass of whiskey when there was another knock at the door.

Phil ran through the few possibilities it could be, then threw the door open as quickly as he could when he saw Clint standing in the hallway through the peephole.

“Clint! Is something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Clint said. “Or everything’s wrong.”

Clint leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, both hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans, and he stared at Phil’s floor as if there was something fascinating there. Phil figured he couldn’t be blamed for letting his eyes linger as he soaked in the image Clint made.

Clint raised his eyes and looked at Phil through his lashes. “I wondered if it would be okay if I did my thinking tomorrow,” he said.

“If you . . . Oh,” Phil said. “I, yes, yes, that would be . . .”

“Did you know I’d be back?” Clint asked plaintively.

“No,” Phil said as he reached out to curl his fingers into Clint’s t-shirt and drag him into the apartment. “But I’m glad you are.”

The End

**Author's Note:**

> If you're wondering whether there will be a follow-up to this story, the answer is a definite maybe. *g* I have the ideas, the only question is whether I find time to write them down.
> 
> Also, yes, it is interesting (to me, at least) that Tony Stark played a large role in my first Clint/Coulson fic, and Pepper plays a role in this one.


End file.
